


A Duet for two Harps

by firstamazon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, M/M, Slash, from the Mereth Aderthad, to the end of the First Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon
Summary: Maglor and Daeron meet repeatedly over the course of the First Age and develop something special.
Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	A Duet for two Harps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaurengeBleue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurengeBleue/gifts).



> A million thanks to bunn for the amazing beta and for helping with the title! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Written for the Tolkien Secret Santa 2020. Happy holidays to all, and thank you for those who will read :D
> 
> Cafelatte100 found this [amazing piece](https://riccardoguasco.tumblr.com/post/642751294135779328/spartiti-riccardo-guasco-2021) from Italian artist Riccardo Guaco as a fitting illustration for this story <3

Macalaurë remembered well the first time his father put a harp into his hands. He remembered perfectly what it felt like to join in with the Song for the first time. He remembered his first composition, his first presentation, his first kiss, his first adolescent love, the first time he stepped on a boat… The first time he killed. 

Macalaurë’s life was filled with these first times, bits of memories that tangled in his heart and fëa like seaweed on one’s ankle.

He would remember forever the first time he saw Daeron of Doriath.

It had been at the Mereth Aderthad. Macalaurë, more than any of his brothers – except, of course, Maedhros – was excited and keen to make it work. Just make it _work_. They all need it so much!

(His father was no more; their rights to the crown were no more. Nolofinwë was High King, and a righteous one; his uncle deserved it – and if Findekáno was as disheartened as Maedhros had been, dealing with the burden of being a High Prince, he hid it well, all smiles and charms.)

A delegation from Doriath had arrived, and was making its way to the king’s dais, to pay their respects and acknowledge their offer of an alliance. The King received two ambassadors: one tall, with silver hair like moonlight, broad-shouldered, with the pose of an archer. The other, lean and graceful, also had silver hair but it was paler, and he had enormous green eyes. They bowed to Nolofinwë as they announced their names, Mablung the first, and Daeron the latter. Macalaurë had heard of Thingol’s minstrel from other Sindar: the best bard in all of Arda, they had said.

When Macalaurë’s eyes fell on the most famous bard in Beleriand for the first time, he couldn’t say he was immediately impressed. Daeron had that wild look about him – like all the Sindar – and was not of any particular beauty. His hair was sleek and straight, his eyes bright but sad. Macalaurë had heard the gossip that the minstrel was desperately in love with Thingol’s own daughter, and as soon as he laid eyes on Daeron, Macalaurë felt sympathy for him for the first time: his Song had not been entwined with the Doriathrin princess.

Later that night, the High King rose solemnly. Nolofinwë’s face was stern, but behind his carefully constructed mask, there was an indecipherable glint in his eyes. He invited Daeron and Macalaurë to play – and a gleeful contest had been set up among the gathering. Bets were raised, laughter rose among them all like none could have predicted: the Sindar placed coins, daggers, belts, swords, and precious stones on their favorite bard. Macalaurë listened to their bet and smiled. It was fair. 

His father’s followers would never choose another than Fëanáro’s second born. Macalaurë listened to their praises and smiled wholeheartedly to those that looked up to the Seven Brothers as if they were the Valar themselves. It was misplaced, but it was love.

Those who had crossed the Ice would rather bow their heads and suck off Thingol’s cock than do anything for those who have abandoned them, the Kinslayers – that was very obvious. Macalaurë smiled ruefully as he heard Nolofinwë’s followers place all their bets on Daeron, while others claimed in high voices that Beloved Findaráto should enter the contest too – but his golden cousin was nowhere to be seen. Macalaurë felt his heart tighten in his chest, for he had taught Findaráto when they were both young and innocent, and they had enjoyed more than just playing together. But that had been before the Hells broke loose among them.

Findekáno, however, was chatting with his brothers in a lighthearted way: he had bet on Macalaurë – for Maedhros’s sake, no doubt. So did the High King – and _that_ was a surprise. Despite everything, Nolofinwë smiled kindly at Macalaurë, and he felt joy burst through him, tears prickled his eyes. He bowed to his uncle: it was more than he deserved.

Thus, Macalaurë and Daeron played against each other for the first time. 

Macalaurë used all of the skill he had learned from Telerin musicians, and from his own father – the best in every craft he had ever bent his mind upon. He brought forth the loveliness of the stars upon Tirion, the wondrous Mingling of the Trees that shone within his eyes, and a love fiercer and stronger than the foundations of Taniquetil. His light tune softened and warmed hearts, raised people to their feet to dance, and, once it was over, elation fell in all the gathered Elves – even in those who begrudged to admit it.

If Daeron had been impressed or intimidated, he didn’t show it. He bowed to Macalaurë in respect with a serene smile and challenged his tune with a melancholic one. Utterly beautiful it was, as it evoked their Awakening under the Stars, how their eyes filled with wonder at the twinkling skies, Menegroth and its sparkling glory, rays of moonlight gleaming over thousands of gems of all colors that formed the most magnificent spectrum of lights, and love as quiet and deep as the secret glades of Doriath.

It was not the first time in his life that Macalaurë felt overwhelmed by another’s music, by how the Song surged through them and leaped in his veins like fire. But it was the first time he realized he had found his match.

Neither was victorious that night. 

***

Macalaurë wandered away from the festivities, for Daeron’s music had evoked things in him he had best thought forgotten, resting cold and dead across the Sea, abandoned and forsaken. He sat on a rock by the Pools of Ivrin, beautiful and fresh, while his fingers plucked idly on his harp. 

“Well played,” a voice came from the trees. 

Daeron.

Clad all in deep green and earthly brown, he could barely be distinguished at night. His glossy hair tied in a braid that fell over his shoulder invitingly. Macalaurë had not missed the fact that Daeron didn’t call him “Lord”, as the rest of the elves from the Falas or from far Ossiriand – even Mablung had addressed him as a lord. But not Daeron.

Yet there was no defiance in his eyes – as there had been in Mablung’s. Well, perhaps there was defiance, but of a different kind.

“May I?” He asked in his accented Sindarin, mellifluous as the notes of his harp that evening.

“Of course.” 

Daeron sat beside him.

“It was brilliant to see you playing,” the Sinda said quietly. “Although I agree with what they say. I _am_ better.” He threw Macalaurë a smug smile.

Macalaurë raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Who are _they_?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone in Doriath, you mean. I doubt my people would agree. I was the best musician in Tirion,” Macalaurë said mildly but, in fact, he quite agreed with Daeron. The Doriathrin minstrel was _the best_ he had ever heard in his life.

Nevertheless, there was a glint of amusement in Daeron’s eyes as he replied. “Your precious Tirion is not the whole of Beleriand, Fëanorion,” and the way he said that, although it was meant as an insult, somehow sounded like a caress in Daeron’s voice, the syllables rolling on his tongue like potent wine.

“Then there is only one way I know to settle this, Doriathrin,” Macalaurë couldn’t help mirroring the smile on his lips.

Immediately they caught up their harps and started playing at the same time. Melodies rose and fell like the tides, rushed and crashed against one another, higher or lower, stronger or sweeter, in opposition, ever trying to best the other’s composition. They played and played until their fingers ached, beads of sweat gathered in their brows. 

Yet none gave up. They kept playing like their lives depended on it.

Later, Macalaurë would never know how it happened. One of them began a melody that was cheerful and easy to follow, and the other followed its tempo, adapting it as it changed like the threads of time unveiling before their eyes, so both compositions belonged and didn’t to the other. 

It changed and changed until they were caught in a web of loveliness beyond words. 

Macalaurë had his heart in his fingers and tears in his eyes, for the song was within the Song, and he could feel Daeron’s fëa trembling as the strings of his harp. It coiled and stretched around them, and they were enveloped in a globe of silver light that shone through the Ivrin, reflecting in its placid waters. Power surged from their hearts and extended invisible fingers that wove and moved between them like living things.

Suddenly Macalaurë and Daeron were face to face as the Song rose around them, and their eyes were impossibly bright, and their hairs were lifted as if by a wind that blew from within their souls, whispering incomprehensible words that made Macalaurë gasp and close his eyes in ecstasy. It was beautiful, too beautiful for any ears but theirs, and he felt embraced at the same time as his arms reached out to stroke liquid silver hair, to touch skin as soft as silk and to kiss a mouth that tasted of the blissful years of the Trees.

Macalaurë sat and stared at Daeron, entranced and without moving, as the visions conjured in his mind’s eye by their song of the Song caressed and parted clothes and smelled the sweet fragrance of the woods of Doriath, and niphredil that bloomed during the night. Somehow Daeron’s fëa was within his own. Daeron’s pulse leaped against his lips, the silvery threads caressed skin, raised his hair in delight, blood pumped through his body and filled him to an aching point. Hands stroke his engorged length, and together they fell within the Song, the most glorious thing Macalaurë had ever experienced.

He was breached and filled and used, while the conscient part of him still felt the harpstrings ring under his fingers. Then, it was his turn, and the sounds of Daeron panting and writhing against his skin, underneath his weight had sent Macalaurë surfing through a haze of pleasure unbeknownst to him, a soft tongue pushing against his and Macalaurë gasped and moaned and came again, and again as they sat apart, connected only by the Song, which rose and died away as their pleasure ebbed. Breathing hard, Macalaurë fell onto his back, exhausted, spent, and completely bewildered by what they had just done.

He closed his eyes and let the warmth and silvery fire that was Daeron’s fëa recover, and a wave of peace as soothing as the sounds of the Sea settled in his bones. He dozed off.

When he awoke again, he was alone. Had it all been a dream? No. His clothes were soiled. His fingers bled, and Macalaurë smiled. Not a dream, then.

He returned to the feast that still roared wildly into the night with his heart as light as it had ever been since Maedhros had been returned to them. A lustful frenzy had fallen upon the elves gathered there, and many were unashamedly lying with others. 

The Noldor, careless of the laws and customs that plagued them in Valinor, had set free some of the pent-up passion that had once been forbidden– and he could see Irissë and Curufinwë all over each other – and was that Artanis with them? – Tyelkormo and Findaráto, and Carnistir and Angaráto. Maedhros and Findekáno were nowhere to be seen – not that there was any doubt that they were together.

Macalaurë smiled broadly. Daeron was nowhere to be seen, but, for now, it was enough.

***

Once the Feast was over, the delegations left with gifts, promises of future alliances, and many praises – Daeron praised most of all. He had gained admirers, followers, people who wanted to learn from his skill (but should wait on a formal invitation once the minstrel had spoken to his king), and many a maiden swooned after him. Macalaurë could have said the same for himself if he had cared to pay attention to anyone but the Doriathrin elf.

Then, Macalaurë said farewell to Daeron for the first, but not the last, time. 

***

Macalaurë stared at the fire. The wind blew fiercely in the vast plains of Himlad, and he had to use some words of Power to keep the fire going against the cold wind that came from the North. It was not yet night, but the scouts were already placed in the outer rings of the small camp, speaking in quiet voices and keeping to themselves, as they ought to.

Macalaurë leaned to the wind and closed his eyes, listening. The soft jingle of metal against leather, hooves that came ever close. Then, unexpectedly, the Song surged around him with the wind. It lifted his hair, and Macalaurë knew he had to see the rider, for he could not believe his instincts – he had lost some of his confidence after the fall of the Gap.

As the scout brought the rider to their inner circle, Daeron laid eyes on the Kinslayer, and his face hardened.

“Eat and drink. You must be weary from the journey,” Macalaurë handed him a flask with miruvórë. Daeron hesitated for a moment, but sat down opposite him and took a sip. “How long since you left Doriath?”

“A fortnight,” Daeron answered gloomily, green eyes cast down.

Macalaurë waited but, as the other said nothing else, he probed gently. “Can I think it’s a coincidence you came to my brother’s lands?”

“These are not your lands, Fëanorion! These are my people’s!” He said angrily, but bit his tongue the next minute. “You were overrun.”

“Yet you are here.”

“I am here,” he looked up defiantly at Macalaurë. “I take it that you’ve heard the rumors?”

“That Lúthien set out with a Man in a quest to take a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown? I’ve heard,” Macalaurë answered darkly. “It is folly to attempt this deed.”

“So I have told her, and the king!” Daeron scowled the last word bitterly. “But none of my words could move them. Ha! So much for a silver tongue! What use do I have of it when I could not make her turn back?” He buried his head in his hands. “It is madness. She will die, and Thingol-” he stopped abruptly.

Whatever anger Macalaurë held against Lúthien’s quest, he felt compassion for the minstrel: his Song was discordant and troubled.

“Thingol will do nothing,” Macalaurë guessed softly.

“Not only my love for her was betrayed and disregarded, but I have let her slip through my fingers. Now I’m chasing my own shadow,” Daeron lowered his eyes once more, perhaps ashamed of such a confession.

There was nothing Macalaurë could say – not through words, anyway. He took his harp and played a soft melody that aimed to soothe Daeron’s heart. Why he did it, he did not know – not immediately. Later, he admitted having seen his own powerlessness reflected in the Doriathrin, and they shared a companionable night despite the grievances that divided their kind. 

That night, he sang as the sky rolled over their heads and tinged the world with the mingled purple shades of dawn. As he sat beside Daeron in the quiet hours that precede sunrise, Macalaurë felt, for the first time, that they weren’t at war.

That night, for the first time, Daeron looked at Macalaurë differently. Like he had found something he wasn’t expecting. Something new. A part of him he didn’t even know was missing.

***

Macalaurë stared at the fire. It burned low, and it was all but cinders and coals. The weather in the South was not cold as it had been in Himring – the old fortress that was now a pile of crumbled stones and destroyed dreams. However, this fortress – _Caranthir’s_ fortress – in Amon Ereb was colder than Macalaurë had ever felt in his life. Its high stone walls and empty corridors held a nightmare in each corner. 

The shadows danced and walked past him like low echoes of Song that drifted away as soon as he paused to listen. As Macalaurë stretched his senses to grasp those thin wisps of smoke like a drowning man – metal hammering against metal and dog’s fur and shouting and bantering and brooding… Just when he thought he would find them again, it was gone.

They were gone.

Everything had gone terribly wrong. He needed no one to remind him of that, even though Maedhros’ constantly pinched face and the silence that fell whenever he approached the once cheerful, jovial twins was more than a reminder. It was his daily bitter medicine.

Macalaurë stared at the dying fire and remembered a happier time when victory seemed possible. Everything had seemed possible that night he had shared his flask of miruvórë with Daeron of Doriath. Even love seemed possible then.

A melody caught in the wind and entered through the panels of his open windows, snuffing the fire out completely. The melody lifted the hairs of his neck and arms, and Macalaurë sprung from the armchair with a will that felt as if it was not his own.

He found himself in the upper bailey, a little harp strapped on his back, running to an embrasure and staring out into the dusk. And then, as if Macalaurë’s yearning could have conjured him out of thin air, he saw Daeron in the distance, a tiny speck of brown and green in the horizon coming towards Amon Ereb. He ran to the stables, jumped in his horse without saddle or bridle, and ran towards what it felt like was his destiny.

He had expected, of course, to be received at an arrow’s point – and he had anticipated the coldness and the stream of words in the Doriathrin dialect that Macalaurë knew were foul things to say to anyone, let alone to an old acquaintance.

But Macalaurë was beyond himself. He slid out of his horse in a haze and stood at an arm’s length from Daeron’s arrow.

“Halt, Dagnir Nossa*,” Daeron spat the words in a voice croaked for the lack of use. 

Macalaurë stared into those frosty green eyes and almost smiled. Here was someone that could hold him accountable for his sins, help him atone for Alqualönde, for the slaughter in Menegroth, the death of three of his brothers, the abandonment of Díor’s twins…

The Song rose in the space between their bodies like a great wave, whipping their hairs around their faces, such beauty and nostalgia that Macalaurë staggered – it seemed that he was floating, guided by the One’s invisible hand.

He heard Daeron gasp and hold his bow more tightly, his right hand shaking against his chest. 

“If you take one step closer, Barad**, I _will_ fire,” he said, but his voice wavered.

Macalaurë found himself at the arrow’s point, and it bit at his flesh. He felt blood trailing down his chest, but he didn’t feel it; he didn’t care.

“Daeron-”

“Don’t!” The other cried and pushed the arrow harder. “Just don’t, Fëanorion. Damn you to the Void!”

Macalaurë stared at the other as the arrow bruised him – but he needed it. Deserved it. All of it. His eyes must have shown his thought, for Daeron dropped the bow and bowed his head with a desperate, strangled sob. Daeron clenched his fists, and Macalaurë thought the other would beat him down until there was nothing left of him but a bloody pulp – as poor Findekáno had been beaten down, and beautiful Findaráto, all his cousins, his bright, mischievous brothers… the loss was a physical pain, and his hand reached to clutch at his tunic; like it could crush his sins as Morgoth had crushed his family.

The Song surged again between them, and their notes mingled for the first time in their shared grief. Macalaurë took two steps and fell to his knees. Daeron looked quizzically down, and then Macalaurë’s intention dawned on him. Daeron curled his lips in a sneer, but it died mid-way. Macalaurë took that as his cue and unlaced Daeron’s breeches, hand and mouth working the length to full hardness, while the other hand worked on himself.

It was the first time Macalaurë had done this since he had crossed the Sea. From the looks of him, it was Daeron’s first time as well – but he did not shy from tangling his hand in Macalaurë’s tousled hair. When it was over, Macalaurë stood up, taking a careful step back. 

“This changes nothing, Fëanorion!” He said grimly, but in a less aggressive tone than before. “I should still kill you for what you have done in Doriath.”

That was nothing Macalaurë could say to that. If it was Daeron wielding the blade, he would welcome it with open arms.

“They are not here,” Macalaurë told him, assuming that Daeron was looking for Lúthien’s grave. “They lived up the Adurant, on an island. People called it Dor Firn-i-Guinar,” he could not hide the wry smile that tugged his lip.

Daeron stared at Macalaurë for some time. Then, he swung up his horse and said: “I did not come looking for her.” He turned away before Macalaurë could reply.

***

He was quite mad, and he knew it.

At first, the awareness of it had been a shock. Now he was used to it. He deserved to be mad and lost. Lost like his brothers, his cousins, his entire family…

Music. There was only music inside his mind. The Song played over and over again in his mind, before his waking eyes at every minute, every hour. That was only music, the song he had composed to the dead, the only sound that rang in his ears. That, and the soothing sound of the sea. He knew he was close to it, but he couldn’t tell where.

So much had changed…

He vaguely remembered the earth tremors – but only because they had lasted for decades, and sometimes he would have a moment of lucidity before his mind plunged itself back into the darkness, where it was safe, where all the shadows of his life dwelt. But it was in those moments that Maglor remembered, painfully, why his brother had forsaken his childhood names after Angband. A trauma such as this could not be overcome unless one changed as a snake changes skin.

Not that it had worked for Maedhros. He was lost now. All of it was lost.

The scar throbbed in his hand, a constant reminder of his failure, his incapacity to save his brothers, to hold on to the people he loved most. He had failed his father, his brothers, and his children. All lost now.

Between these moments of clarity ran the only inescapable thing in Maglor’s life: his song. He played it over and over, and it floated in every direction; sometimes light and cheerful like his brother’s smiles in Formenos, warm like his mother’s embrace, loving like only his father could be; sometimes hard and anguished like this parody of life he now lived.

There was a point when he remembered another elf – he couldn’t say, now, who that had been. The elf had knelt before him and had taken him in his mouth until he climaxed and collapsed, drained of energy. He was held by strong arms who didn’t let him go for a long time. There was a Song… a familiar melody, and a pungent fragrance of niphredil… 

He was thin and worn, his clothes hung loosely about the sack of bones that was his once lean body. He had had a chiseled face, features a pale shadow of his father’s beauty. Maglor had no need for those words now. Not anymore. 

Thus, he played. 

When he ate, he didn’t remember where the food came from. If he fished or hunted, he could not recall. That was how he knew he was quite mad. Once, he thought fishermen had helped him, even knowing who he was. By now, Maglor figured they might have forgotten his name and his face – or stopped recognizing him – and kept only the ghost stories of monster eating-children and the slayer of kin. _Dagnir Nossa_.

He shuddered and plunged back into darkness. It was better to forget.

Thus, he played.

***

In one of those moments of clarity, he realized he was well-fed instead of famished. His clothes were clean and comfortable, instead of dirty rags. His body had gained strength, and his mind seemed to have cleared, even if just a slit.

Maglor sat inside a humble wooden hut on a cliff that faced the sea. He could taste the salt upon his tongue, clinging to his hair like a lover’s finger and sand getting inside his boots. He blinked. He had boots – simple but comfortable brown leather.

And then he heard it: distant, a thread of a Song that sighed a name in his ears. But Maglor did not know to whom it belonged. It was a melody he knew well, strangely entwined with his own. But Maglor did not remember the name to whom it belonged. He didn’t have anyone left. He was alone.

He looked about him like he had awoken from a dream. There was a bed inside the hut, big enough for two, covered with many furs. A table with a chair, a chest – rustically made of bamboo and intricate wickerwork. Against the hut, there were musical instruments. Not only his own, he realized – he seldom put his harp away, and it had found its place in the cradle of his lap for so long that Maglor didn’t think he could bear to be separated from it.

But there was a bigger harp than his own – the one he had, as big as this one, was lost many, many centuries ago, like everything else he ever had, except the harp in his lap. There was also a flute. Maglor blinked longer this time. The last time he had played the flute had been in Valinor… 

Before his mind started reeling with the realization that he was in someone else’s hut, the someone in question entered through the door, bringing with them a stronger smell of seaspray. Against the light, Maglor could not tell his face. The Song became louder, and his heart started thumping fast as recognition seemed close, so close, on the edge of his conscience…

“The fishing was good today!” The elf said, not looking at Maglor, holding the fish tied in a cord in his right hand. “Look at the size of it!”

The elf didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped inside, closed the door, and yanked his cloak off with his free hand. Then, as he stepped into the light, Maglor saw him as if it was the first time. The elf was clad in practical clothes, brown and black. He had a lean and graceful pose, silver hair spilling over his shoulders like molten mithril.

“And the water was great,” the elf continued. “Maybe I’ll take you out for a bit later. What do you think?” 

As he turned and looked at Maglor, their eyes met for what seemed the first time in forever. Daeron blinked, and his lips parted in surprise. He moved to the small kitchen and put the fish on the counter. Maglor’s eyes followed him, and Daeron seemed at a loss for a moment. Then, as if he had made up his mind, he took two strides to his harp and swiftly sat behind it. His fingers plucked at the strings and a melody purer and sweeter than the whisper of the ocean.

Maglor instinctively closed his eyes, for he remembered this melody. It was not the first time he had felt overwhelmed by another’s music, or by how the Song surged through them and leaped at his veins like fire, waking up a dormant part of him he didn’t remember was even alive. Maglor picked his harp and followed the melody – allowing memory to flood his senses, allowing the Song to clear his mind.

Even before the Song was over, Maglor felt a breeze that came through open windows, cold upon his wet cheeks. He bowed his head and no longer hid the immense grief, the gaping wound in his soul. Maglor sobbed for the first time since he had lost Maedhros. He felt strong, protective arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he buried his nose in pale hair, the heady scent of niphredil and the sea.

***

Maglor opened his mouth to speak, a faint croak unlike the melody of old. “Why?”

Daeron chuckled. “That is a complicated question,” he murmured in Maglor’s ear, pleased that Maglor had found both his voice, and the courage to ask. “Do you wish to tell me why the world is such a disgrace, unfair and unloving, or do you ask why am I here?”

Maglor withdrew with a frown and licked his lips. “How…?” He coughed. Daeron stood up and handed him a glass of water, which he drank. Then he sat down again beside Maglor, warming in his presence. 

“I found you long ago. You were not yourself. You didn’t even recognize me,” he added with a wry curl of lips and waited for any response. Maglor simply looked at him, so he continued. “I tried ignoring you, Fëanorion,” he said softly, “but your Song kept bringing me back to where you were.” Up to a point where I couldn’t bear to be parted from it anymore, he wanted to say but held his tongue.

Maglor looked at him with those strange silver eyes, as bright as any star, clear now of the fog that had clouded his reason for so long. Unexpectedly, though, Maglor leaned forward and pressed his lips against Daeron’s mouth. A gasp of surprise allowed Maglor to lick slightly at his teeth and tongue. Daeron thought about stopping him, but Maglor’s breath whispered over his lips.

“Please.”

And Daeron could not deny that plea. Daeron took Maglor’s thin face between his hands and kissed him for the first time. It was not soft or gentle. It was desperate and frantic. Clothes parted and torn, and as Maglor pulled Daeron on top of him, the friction of their strained erections made them both gasp in desperate need.

Then, Daeron hesitated. He bit his lips, trying to control the lust that took over his sense as never before in his life – not even for her – and looked down at the wretched elf beneath him. He was gorgeous, the Barad one. Even thin like this, he was the most beautiful elf Daeron had ever laid his eyes upon. And Maglor’s eyes pierced him deeply, fanning his desire, and those parted, red-bitten lips were temptation in itself. But the other had been mad for so long… how could Daeron know he would even remember it once it was over?

How could he know that Maglor wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night with a sword in his hand like he had so many times, so deep in his nightmares, he couldn’t tell dreams from reality? The blade was now hidden from sight, but the wild savagery he had seen in Maglor’s eyes still frightened him.

“Please, Daeron,” Maglor whispered, his voice broken, but still, it was melodic and mellow. “Please. I need it. I need you. You saved me, and I need you. Never to be parted from me, never. I need you, Daeron, please.”

Daeron could have laughed if his throat wasn’t burning so much. Damn him! Maglor had played his heart like he had his harp, and Daeron knew – he had always known – that Maglor was his match in more than just music. He leaned down and kissed that sinful mouth deeply, feeling the same intense rush of lust reflected in Maglor’s eyes as Daeron swallowed his moans.

And as their bodies joined at long last, their Song rose like the wind, loud as the thunder in his ears, hot as the blood in his veins, and as wonderful as Maglor felt around him. It made them both cry out loud and weep in each other’s arms at the magnificence of their joining, more beautiful than their Songs, slowly subsided.

“Thank you,” Maglor whispered in his ear. 

“I have wanted this to happen since the first time I laid eyes on you,” he replied with a weak smile, raising his head to look at Maglor, delighted to see life back into those mercury eyes, gleaming with mirth and softened with sex.

“Then let’s not make it be the first and only time.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Dagnir Nossa = slayer of kin  
> **Barad = Doomed (according to Parf Edhelen)
> 
> I have purposefully used Maedhros instead of his Quenya names because, to me, he chose to leave his childhood names behind after he was rescued from Thangorodhrim.


End file.
